


He Would Rather Not Know But His Eyes Stay Open

by PGT



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Blood, Captivity, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Interrogation, Lack of Communication, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot, Slow Burn, Starvation, Strangers to Lovers, Torture, Violence, Whump, i mean they barely know eachother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25723813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: Mundy finds himself captive with his allied Spy. While their holding and captors may seem almost pleasant at first, he's quick to realize that the Spook's urgency to get the hell out isn't for nothing. But without weapons, influence, or a clear path to freedom, they must work together to endure the whims of their captors until opportunity arises.
Relationships: Sniper/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68





	1. What do you know that I don't?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm taking recommendations and suggestions for future chapters. If you have a whump trope that you want to see, let me know! Injuries and stress will compound, so let's start small ;) I absolutely love this pairing but have unfortunately read pretty much all of it at this point!

The first thing Mundy notices is the acrid stench of cigarette smoke. There’s so much of it that it’s sourceless. The second thing he notices is the aching in his chest, a path of fire trailing from his clavicle to his waistline. A thin layer of sweat coats him, and yet he finds himself cold. He’s shivering.

The third thing he notices is the repetition of a single word.

“ _ Merde merde merde…. _ ” There’s a sound like a clicking heel. Another sound, the faint creak of leather. The flick of a lighter. He manages to tear his eyes open-- a task he doesn’t remember being so difficult. 

Beside him is the Spy, a companion he is both thankful for and lamenting. Probably the best person to get out of a tight situation with, if looking just at skillsets. But they’re not exactly friends; only allies based on the color of their shirts and badges. The man he knows only as the suave assassin he presents himself as on the field is a bit less composed-- his leg bounces unconsciously against a cement floor, and his hands shake, barely still enough for him to wrap pale lips around a cigarette-- the one in his hands is fresh, but at his feet the carnage of its brethren is clear evidence towards the odor the sniper had woken to. To see a man known for lying, masks and escape a panicked mess, locked in a cell, is less than comforting. 

Worst of all, he doesn’t remember  _ why _ they’re here.

And where is  _ here, _ anyways?

A cell, he can tell that much. There’s little else that generic half-wall mirror can mean. They’re not chained up, but neither of them are armed. The walls are cinderblock, with an off-white paint coating. Blinding artificial light leaves no room for shadows; the bulbs trapped in deep glass-shelled holes in the ceiling. Around three walls a cement bench juts out. Spy sits across from the one-sided mirror. Mundy awoke flat-backed against a side wall.

With a grunt half sounding like “Oi Spook,” He pushes off the bench with one arm, the other coming up to massage his neck. The way the Spy jumps at the sudden noise is another tick to Mundy’s comfort level.

“Oh good, they haven’t left me with a rotting corpse, then.” His voice conveyed none of the anxiety so clearly evidenced in his posture and habits. So the cigarettes were working, if only just. The suited man stood, then, smoothing his clothes in another fit of nervous motion. Only from the attention his hands brought did Mundy recognize that the spy wasn’t wearing his jacket. Instead, it was put aside on the bench beside him-- folded neatly, but folded nonetheless. He was still ornately dressed in a white collared shirt and his pinstripe slacks, but his tie was loose around his neck, and a button undone. His belt was missing, as were his shoelaces. Mundy couldn’t tell what was worse: how unkempt he was for a spook, or the fact that  _ someone _ had captured him and gotten him to come complacently long enough to get his belt and shoelaces away from him.

Assessing himself, he found his own to be missing as well; not to mention his hat and aviators. He paid no mind to the now pacing spy, running a hand over his chest wound. It seemed severe; though no fresh blood poured from it. Dry and crusted blood barely allowed for Sniper to see the neat row of stitches, a neat ‘Y’ of thread marking his torso beneath the torn fabric of his own shirt.

With a groan, as it involved a bit of strain as he pulled the newly sewn wound, he shucked his shirt off, using it as a cloth to wipe away the dewy moisture that still drenched him. With the slashes in it, it was no use as a shirt, anyways.

Throwing it onto the floor, he saw the Spy’s disapproving gaze. His brows furrowed over his eyes, as steep as his hairline. The severity of the expression was more than Sniper ever saw from anyone outside of his old man. Not that it was an expensive fabric or anything, the bastard had folded his jacket, why did it matter what Sniper did?

Wait a minute. Hairline?

“Your face.” It had only just dawned on him that the Spook’s staple balaclava was absent. Whether in the haze of his injury or simply filtering the abnormality out, it had only just settled. Maybe it was just because the spy looked so… not normal, but expected. A standard frenchman. Salt and pepper hair, no fancy haircut, something a passing businessman might have. A five o’clock shadow a day outgrown. Sharp cheekbones and a jawline the sniper had seen every day of his life. The only surprises were a small mole near the man’s right ear, and the way his hair-- presumably unkempt since the removal of the mask-- fell into his face. 

“And now you understand I must kill you, as well. It would have been preferable if you’d simply bled out so I wouldn’t have to dirty my hands.”

The spook flicked his cigarette butt to the sniper’s feet, though there was more an air of exhaustion to the motion than threat. In hand to hand, Mundy had a good idea that he could overpower the spy, so long as he didn’t have any gadgets in his sleeves. Seeing as he’d been stripped of all the basics, and wasn’t already the hell out of here, he had good reason to suspect that wouldn’t be the case. 

But he was injured, and the spy hadn’t killed him yet. So.

“Figured you’d kill us all, eventually.” He replied to the Spy’s back as another cigarette appeared between his fingers. “The fuck happened to get us here?”

There was a pause. Not just in the dialogue, but in the air. Spy seemed to hold his breath, mull over his words carefully. The lighter _flick, flicked_ in the cup of his hand.

His shoulders slacked as he took a drag. Only when the snaking trail of smoke crested his head-- his  _ hair _ , did he speak. “It could be considered ‘my fault,’ in a way.”

“Not a great start.” Mundy wondered at what the spy could have done to involve him, to get them both captured alive. He strained his memory to his own capture, to whatever had given him the injury across his chest. If he squeezed his eyes shut enough, he might remember a skirmish-- the kiss of a blade, a scream, a mass of figures armed to the teeth. He might remember the fear, the grasp on his machete slacking. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been ambushed, there was no telling if this was a new memory blurred by adrenaline, or an old one faded from time. 

But he’d always gotten away. His memories usually ended passed out in the cab of his RV, or in the medical bay under the doctor’s blade, or in the worst cases, in the blinding light of Respawn.

From the spook’s manner, he reasoned this wasn’t anything to do with BLU. The bland white of the walls suggested that, alongside the fact that RED base had no holding cell such as this. And if this wasn’t BLU base, there was reason to suspect Respawn wasn’t an option. Maybe it was, but if the man that appeared to be awake for transport didn’t think so, Sniper wasn’t taking that chance.

“It’s no concern what brought us here, just that we get out.” He glanced across the room, as if looking for some secret passage, a hidden door frame, a switch or trigger that he hadn’t seen before, as if he hadn’t already checked before Mundy woke. He looked too; as if he might see something the spook hadn’t. 

It definitely  _ did _ matter what had brought them here, but with Spy suggesting they both needed to escape, he wasn’t about to push the matter and alienate himself from his only ally. He couldn’t imagine the spy making such a rookie mistake as to get caught. He considered that it could be a few forgotten mistakes of his past, before he was a proper professional. But that didn’t explain why  _ he  _ was here. Had he sold the team’s information to some outside contact? But what made Mundy worth capturing, and why capture their informant, too?

“Anyone I’d know?” He stood, taking a once-over of the crease between the ceiling and walls (a flawless line, no chance of secret panels) and stepped towards the spy in the center of the room. The spook turned at the sound of his shoes against the floor, that same aggressive scowl across his face as before. So it hadn’t been about the shirt. Maybe just about the general fucked-ness of the situation, then. 

For a small moment, they locked eyes, and as bare as the Spy’s face was, Mundy realized this may be the first time the spook ever saw his eyes without a black plate of glass between them. His gaze darted from eye to eye, then quickly to the scar on his chest. He turned away and sucked again at the cigarette between his fingers. “Not likely.” The words came out with the wafting smoke. Now it was Mundy’s turn to frown.

“I get it’s a shitty situation, mate, but you’re gonna die of cancer if you keep this up.” Without thinking much of it, he reached for the cigarette. He wouldn't have dared, normally, but he was fairly certain the spy couldn’t kill him--not here, not yet, at least. 

The spy seemed as surprised as Mundy was of the action, as the stick released easily from his grasp, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. His mouth was still slack with his exhale, but the smoke froze in its forward expulsion as his breath stopped.

“Sorry,” Mundy offered. It wasn’t his business, he supposed. But he’d rather the man stop having a panic attack, or whatever this was, and sit down and actually think up a strategy.

The spy huffed out the rest of his smoke, and shut his mouth tight. He schooled his expression, and turned away again. His fingers twitched towards his leg, but stopped. “No, you are correct. Not correct in postulating that I would die, but it is not productive.”

He took a long stride towards the opposite wall, twisted, and sat, one leg crossed over the other, elbows on his knees, fingers bridged for his chin to rest. Mundy dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath the toe of his shoe. 

“They aren’t complicated people. There are simply a multitude of them.” Spy began, and Sniper took a seat of his own beside his discarded shirt. Spy ran a hand through his hair. It was an odd sight-- the obscured hands and exposed scalp of a man he’d known… three years now? He couldn’t remember a time where he’d seen the man’s palm, or his ears. Having seen one, he had a small itch of interest for the other.

It was an odd thing to be focusing on when the spook was offering more information. He blinked, brushed it aside. Focused on the words. “...a run in with them, but I was not what they desired. I had assumed incorrectly that I had removed anyone who may be of future concern.” His hand flicked again towards his pocket, stopped just before it. He placed both hands firmly on his thighs. His ever present scowl took the shape of a sarcastic grin. “Evidently, I had not done as thorough a job as I had hoped.” 

“They’re not hitmen or bandits, they don’t want us dead. But they’re about as good company as the doctor on a particularly curious evening.” He met Mundy’s eyes from across the room. His eyes said what his words had kept vague. Staying here didn’t mean death, but death was not the worst outcome that could befall them.

“Torture?”

“It could be described as such,” Spy’s demeanor had once more cooled into a stony expression, and an almost amused lilt touched his voice. After seeing his shaking hands, bouncing leg and still smelling the burn of nicotine in his lungs, Mundy couldn’t tell whether the man had calmed or simply pulled himself together.

He thought towards the concept. Torture. He wasn’t completely ignorant of it, but he’d been under the medic’s machinery, been blown to bits by a sentry, a rocket, a shotgun and explosives enough times to grow numb to the pain. Then again, so had Spy. Spy, who had had a run in with these people before. Before RED team, presumably. If he still feared whatever they had to offer…

“A sniper and a spook without their gear ain’t much against an army, mate. But I’ll do what I can.”

“No,” The spy looked down at his feet. His voice almost sounded calm. “Not much indeed.”


	2. All the Warning I Can Offer With Eyes On Me

When the hinges of the door beside the mirror croaked, Spy’s back went stiff his eyes had been absently staring in the middle distance, but now they shot to the seam of wall that pushed forward. Mundy tensed, watching for a signal, a sign, any sort of direction.

If the spook gave any, it was too small for him to notice. He simply stared, and his skin grew pale. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, but otherwise he was still. Mundy followed his gaze to the door.

Two men entered. The spy made no move to dispatch them, so Mundy stayed flat footed, slouched with his hands loosely gripping the bench below him. He pressed the bridge of his left foot down, ready to launch himself forward if the opportunity arose. 

While the first man was unarmed-- a spindly, tall old man in a pristine black suit and black gloves with a clean shaven face-- behind him was a man that reminded Mundy of a particular gun-toting russian fellow, if only by shape and size. He too was unarmed, though Mundy suspected it was more because he himself was a weapon, than any lack of sense of security. 

If fighting Spy hand-to-hand was a maybe, fighting this man was a guaranteed loss. He dropped the tension in his posture completely. The door closed behind the giant of a man, and a sense of finality cloaked the room. ‘ _ Trapped _ ’ was the first word to come to Mundy’s mind.

He glanced between the three figures before him. The largest man was evidently serving his purpose with presence alone-- a guard, whether protecting the man he’d come in with or defending the door from attempted escapees Mundy wasn’t sure. The older man had a relaxed posture, arms crossed at the small of his back, lips curled into an easy smile and eyes half lidded as he stared at the Spy. The spy, who’s knuckles were white against the concrete bench, who’s jaw was clenched, who’s stare had more hatred than just a captured man. Mundy may not know much about the spy, but he hadn’t made it this far as an assassin without some level of perception. That glare was one with memories, that glare was personal. His inability to compose himself here, wherever  _ here _ was, only supported that.

The man in charge spoke. His voice was deeper than his frame led Mundy to suppose. His accent… it was hard to tell. Western European, but accents had never been a specialty of his.

It wasn’t as if the accent was what raised attention, anyway. “Jaques, it’s been a while. Or, I’m sorry, is it Milo now? René? Valentin?” each name causes the spook’s eye to twitch.

The spy stayed silent for a moment. When the man seemed ready to wait as long as it took, a single word fell from his lips. “Alexandre.” The word was heavy on the spook’s tongue, and Mundy had no doubts it was fake. 

Alexandre. Even if it was fake, Mundy felt like he was eavesdropping on a deep secret, to hear a name attributed to the spy.

Whether the man believed him or not was unclear, but he seemed satisfied with the name regardless. “Alexandre, very well then. And how have you been faring since our affairs intertwined?”

Mundy watched as the spy’s chest--  _ Alexandre’s _ chest-- deflated, a slow and calculated exhale. Calming himself. His grip slacked, and color came back to his fingers. “I’ve been well. I was sure I’d made it clear our association was no longer necessary, and that remains the case.” Confident. Or, seemingly so. He switched so quickly between masks and what seemed to be reality, it was hard to keep track.

The man in black stepped forward, extending a gloved hand toward’s spy’s face. “May I?”

His nose twitched. “But of course.” he lifted his chin, and opened his mouth.

To watch a man rove in another’s mouth outside of a dentist-- and even within the bounds of dentistry-- was an awkward experience. The stranger’s forefinger traced the upper incisors, past the canine and pushing towards the molars, so that his finger was taken in completely. To an outsider, it was fucking weird. He couldn’t begin to guess what was happening. A spy thing? A sex thing? Some weird secret code language?

Whatever the man had been searching for, he found it with a small hum in the back of his throat. His thumb joined the forefinger, and a small  _ pop _ came from within the spook’s oral cavity. Whatever he’d found was grasped between those two fingers. He didn’t move to retract his fingers.

Instead, he kneeled between the Spy’s legs, so that his face was lower than the spy’s, forcing him to look down. Saliva pooled at the edge of his lip. The suited stranger leaned forward, to the ear away from Mundy’s view. Whatever he’d said was not english, or any language Mundy could recognize beyond the murmuring volume. Whatever he said caused the spy’s breath to halt. Drool began to slip from his lip and onto the stranger’s shoe. Idly, Mundy noted that they were buckled, not laced.

Spy grunted around the man’s fingers-- a reply. The hand was removed, and a thin line of spit trailed the small white object he held: a tooth. Mundy blanched-- though there had been no blood, surely he hadn’t just  _ ripped _ the Spook’s tooth out? Without any indication of pain?

The man removed his glove, inverting it so that it became a small pouch for the tooth and saliva it contained. Alexandre made as elegant an attempt at cleaning the drool that fell from his chin as he could.

The stranger looked to Mundy then, and he wondered if he should have done something to stop this interaction.The man’s eyes look sympathetic, and he blinks in a way that makes it seem like he’d forgotten Mundy was even there. “Can’t have him taking the easy way out,” he waggled the ball of his glove as if that explained everything. He stood with a glance at his shoe, frowned, but otherwise gave no more attention to the more familiar captive. He looked back up at Mundy with a smile. “It’s all very confusing I’m sure, you must not know up from down. But there really is nothing to worry about. We’re a family here, we mean no harm.” He stepped towards Mundy, and extended his ungloved hand.

“Richard Horton, a pleasure.”

He felt the spook’s eyes on him. He met Richard’s eyes instead and extended his own hand. He gave a firm shake. 

“Vick Bundy. Pleasure meeting the sp- ...Alex’s old mates.”

The spy gave a choked noise. Richard smiled. When Richard pulled his hand away, he left with a small bow. He turned then to the door, and to the man who blocked it. The guard stepped aside, a palm extended to take the dirtied glove. 

“Dinner will arrive within the hour. I know it must be uncomfortable here, but it is only for insurance. Please make yourselves welcome, And I’ll be returning as soon as I’m able.”

The door opened. Richard slipped through it. The door opened wider for the larger man.

Mick glanced to the Spy, to see if this was their chance. But while his eyes were locked on the sliver of freedom, he made no movement towards it.

The door closed with a whine of unseen hinges. Silence fell between them. They both stared, Mick at the spook-- the spy- Alexandre, Alex. Alex looked at the crevice of the door.

The spy was masking himself better now than he had previously. A stony face, though his fixation on the door betrayed a basic desire to leave. His legs were still, heels flat on the ground. His fingers splayed with even spaces between them at his sides. A rhythmic breathing cycle: in, pause, out. Too rhythmic to be organic. 

“Seemed a reasonable fellow.” He offered. The spy’s gaze locked onto him, and his brows lowered a fraction. In, pause, out. He looked back to the door. "Bit odd," he amended.

“I should hope you’re a better liar than this in the future,  _ Vick _ .”

  
  
  


Food is delivered by the same large man who’d escorted Richard. Behind him were two figures in white scrubs carrying vials and sterile syringe-and-needle kits. The food is set far on Mundy’s bench-- he notes that it is all finger food, and no utensils are present. The large man takes his station at the door. The medics split, one walking towards the spy, another towards him.

He’s not afraid of needles, but he’d be an idiot to just let these strangers-- strangers who  _ a spook _ feared-- take his blood or jab him with a foreign substance. He tenses, and starts to stand as the nurse gets nearer.

“Allow it.” The spook’s voice is cold, and something in it makes Mundy freeze. It’s the first he’s spoken since the door had last shut. The nurse at the spook’s side takes his arm and rolls up the left of his white sleeves. She wraps a band of cloth around his bicep to stem blood flow.

At a loss, Mundy allows the same to happen to him. A tight knot around his bicep. A wipe of alcohol over his inner elbow. The crinkle of the needle being unwrapped. She pricks him, and attaches a suctioning device that siphons his blood into one of two vials she carries. Only then does he remember his own blood loss, and just how woozy he feels without more lost to his system. He closes his eyes against the lightheadedness, focuses on breathing, on pushing the rising feeling in his throat down. When the pressure releases from his arm, he can’t help the sigh of relief. She presses a cotton swab against the entry wound, and a bandage over that. Spy’s nurse does the same, and the three strangers exit.

Mundy is at a loss, but more than anything he feels ready to heave on the floor. He’s nauseous, and though he’s sure the food would help, he can’t find it in him to stand to collect it. 

Though he’s further away, it is the spy that stands. He walks to the trays as he pulls his sleeve down, buttoning the cuffs of his sleeve one-handedly. He slides Mick’s tray over without comment, lifting his own and setting it beside his own seat. There’s an array of crackers, cheese, and a neat ring of sliced sausages. 

Mick takes a handful of cheese and shoves it in his mouth. The spook more daintily picks at a cracker.

When he doesn’t feel quite so near the threat of unconsciousness, the plate is empty. The spy is shredding his second cracker with his fingertips.

“You going to eat that?”

He slides the tray over without a word. It’s not close enough for Mick to reach without standing, but the idea of getting up is less daunting now, and it’s a clear enough offer. Settling again, he pops a new block of cheese into his mouth. The spy fishes out another cigarette. 

He rolled the flavor of the cheese over his tongue-- he’d eaten so desperately before that he hadn’t had time to taste it. There was a foreign tang; sharp cheddar almost, but not quite. “So we just gave our DNA away, or something?”

“That would be an accurate summary.” The spy scraped his shoe over the dried stain of spittle on the ground before him, grinding cigarette ash into the mark. “The alternative to compliance would be much worse.”

Mick frowned around a cracker. “Why don’t they have your blood somewhere if you’ve already been around?” The spook-- Alexandre-- “And what kind of shit name is that, by the way? Alexandre,” He made an attempt at the accent, creating a hacking sound at the back of his throat and scrunching his face at each vowel.

A small huff slipped from Alex’s nose, smoke curling from it like a roused dragon. “It is my name,” He said with a wry smile and a shrug, not of the shoulders but of the entire arm, palms raised upward. “As for my samples, I was not on this side of the mirror, last time around. It was not necessary to keep such careful records, then.” His smile grew sour.

“As much as my name’s Vick,” Mick scoffed. To the notion of the Spook’s past here, though…

“So what, you tortured folks for that guy some time ago?”

“Interrogated, yes.”

Mick scowled. “Not all that bad, then. I’ve not got anything they’d want to know.”

Another huff through the nose, another breath of smoke pulled into the spy’s lungs. “If that is the case, then your experience here will be swift and painless.”

“So they want something out of you, then?”

A creak, and the door opened once more. No one entered. Instead, the bulky escort stood past the frame. He pointed to the spook, and waited.

Alexandre snuffed his cigarette on the bench and stood. He brushed out his shirt, straightened his tie. “That they do.” 

He took one glance at Mick before stepping forward. When he neared the door, he spoke without turning around.

“I wish you the best of fortunes, most opposite of mine.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be some individual interrogation! feel free to give reqs/ideas, the proper whumpening is coming soon ^ ^ Just have to get some of this damn pesky plot out of the way first!


	3. Chapter 3

The door shuts behind Alexandre much like the lid of a coffin. Though, he muses, much less preferred. And yet he hadn’t offed himself before this. A shame that he seemed to have a fear of death, then. No-- a lust for life. Greed, the desire for more. Fitting, as greed was what had gotten him into this mess. 

Before him is a man he doesn’t recognize off a sheet of paper. Preliminary knowledge on the man’s work in special ops, his accreditation in the war, a former name, a former mother and father. Despite his build, he’s a spy, and a good one at that to be an interrogator here. His eyes don’t leave Alexandre’s as with the clink of metal he produces a set of handcuffs. 

Alex offers his hands without dispute. Rather than bind him with his arms in front of him, the man takes one arm and twists him so that he faces away, and cuffs him from behind. It is only reasonable, but no more desirable for being predicted. He sets a rule for himself here, in the interim of rooms, that no words shall be spoken. There are only four options: lie, confess, silence, or escape. Lying is impossible with a second set of eyes-- Mundy may be clever, but without a moment alone he has no way of corroborating a story. Confession will only get him killed. Escape is impossible. Silence will be… unpleasant, but tolerable.

Hands cuffed he’s led by a firm grip on his upper arm, practically dragged. He’s forced to take steps on the balls of his feet as the man lifts him in his pull. He notes that his vision is not obscured; and files that under “evidence that I’m completely fucked.” Though perhaps they just aren’t bothering to hide what he’s already seen.

The halls are familiar, though he sees them in a new light. Clean black tile that created a nostalgic  _ click  _ as heels fell upon it. Clean black tiles that were chosen for that dark color not for any particular aesthetic, but to hide any bloodsplatter that might stain it. He’d noticed the marks plenty as an associate. It hadn’t concerned him more than a scuff would. Then again, it was never his blood being spilled. The doors were labeled neatly, almost as a doctors office may label examination rooms. They were in hall SB2. High security, high risk targets. Through each mirrored window a dark room was visible. Empty but for the one he’d left Mundy in. It left a smirk on his face to see them so bare-- in his day, high risk captures would be spilling into other floors. His pleasure was only dampened with the realization that, with all these rooms, they’d still kept him and the bushman together. 

There were a number of reasons, of course. But it was still inconvenient. Another set of eyes, another mouth. Another body to damage and poison. And poison indeed-- He wondered just what had been put in their meals. Something inodorous, but there was no doubt the meat was tainted with something. Pricks in the sausage casing told him that much. Perhaps it was… impolite to use the bushman as a guinea pig. But for all the advantages his existence was giving their capteurs, it was only fair he made the best of it. 

He is led down the hall to the eastern wing of the building; he knows because all of the plumbing in these buildings had been on the east side. Interrogation always necessitated a sink. The lights are as sterile and blinding as ever, leaking past open doors to rooms each to their own personal tastes-- each a different brand of hell. They’re all clean, though, barring a thin layer of dust along surfaces that light is cast upon. They pass a room like a dentist’s office, another with a single chain hanging from the ceiling. He holds his sigh of relief that they pass a room with a wooden horse.

They turn into the next room. For a torture chamber it’s fairly well furnished, though the iron tables and shelves do little to make the place more homey. A padlock holds a cabinet shut, and a sink stained with hard water stains is obscured in the shadows.. In the center of the room under a dangling light fixture is a chair bolted securely to the ground with thick, rusted screws and scorched welding marks. Below it is a drain. Admirably traditional. Cliche, yes, but perfectly functional. 

He’s guided into it, and as his arm is released his legs beg him to start moving. Instincts never truly die, but he is experienced enough to ignore them. No, bolting now didn’t serve any purpose. Any doors he might actually wish to open would be locked, with no key or lockpick to bypass. Though he’d seen no security detail on the way, he wasn’t foolish enough to believe none existed. He would be restrained, and his next few hours would be worse than they already were about to be. 

So he sits. He lets his ankles be guided to manacles affixed to the legs of the chair, his wrists attached to the back. He listens to the click of the interrogator’s heels as he leaves his view. He keeps his gaze straight. Focuses on breathing. In, pause, out. When a hand touches his shoulder, it takes everything not to jump out of his skin. 

“Stupid to leave you with this,” the man’s pudgy fingers slip his tie from beneath his collar, the slip of silk on silk brushing past his ears. It’s a shame to lose, if not for the sole reason that it is expensive, but that it is  _ his _ , another small amount of visual prestige being taken from him.

But it’s also a good place to hide any number of things. Needles, scraps of paper. It can be a good weapon in a pinch, can be knotted into any number of secret messages. It is a loss to his ever dwindling resources. 

He doesn’t know where it’s gone when the interrogator returns to his view. Slipped away or tossed onto a table or otherwise, he’s unsure. The interrogator continues, “Been making a lot of stupid decisions. Like your cyanide, interesting we let you have it and you not use it. Got something to live for, then.”

In, pause out. Steel his expression. Don’t bat an eye, don’t twitch. 

“That’s good. A man who wants to live is a man who gives me what I need to hear.” He cracks his knuckles against his palms. Alexandre forces his stomach to relax. 

He goes through the spiel, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Spy isn’t listening. In, pause, out. Don't tense your stomach. Don’t show fear. Don’t give anything away. 

“Who are your clients?”

An easy question to ignore. No one buys from a spy with their real name. Not that he doesn’t have his own way of knowing. But ignorance is as important as knowledge, sometimes. He stays silent, and braces.

There’s no preamble. There doesn’t have to be. Alex has lived on the other side of this mirror too long to be shaken by textbook methodology, so they can skip the bullshit. He wants to live, and they’ll challenge that to get what they want. He braces, and the first punch lands, pushing the button of his shirt into his stomach. The man’s hands are big, about as wide as his torso, but he focuses on that singular point of pain, the sharp pinch against white-hot force.

He lets his body jostle with the momentum. Relax, let the energy go through you. He can’t tell if he’s done it right. He hasn’t been punched in a damn long time. Heavy rarely had the chance, and everyone else he’d dealt with in the past many years favored blades. His chin falls, and there’s a wry comfort in the spotless white fabric masking his skin. Pristine. So long as his skin didn’t break, he would be more or less as authoritative in presence as before. Minus the tie. 

The interrogator brings up his face, a history of names, addresses, employers. None of it matters right now. With some pride he recognizes his own misinformation-- a false address here, a false past there. “Bluehill Avenue, Boston” nails it on the head, though. He wonders if they know about her. Don’t think about it, it’ll show on your face. In, pause, out. 

“Who knows about the Operation?” A similar question with similar results. The punch hits deeper, and his body shudders at the impact, a spasm rolling down his shoulders. He breathes in sharply, stifles a gasp it ushers from within him. And so it goes.

“How much were you paid for sharing our intelligence?” A fool might consider it a harmless question. A rib-cracking force impacts his left side as he keeps his mouth shut.

“What exactly did you give them? Names, Locations?” They have to have an inkling of what he’s sold off if they’re worried enough to chase him down. But specifics are integral to intelligence gathering. He stays silent. The fist lands above his hip. He’s not sure if that crunching sound is healthy. 

He’s sweating by the time it’s over. His interrogator seems almost bored, going through a list of questions and coming no closer to an answer to any of them. If he’s smart, he already knew he wasn’t getting anything out of Alex today. It’s a process of escalation. Today wasn’t about intel. It was a warning. It comes as a surprise when the man’s voice becomes soft, for just a moment. 

“It only gets worse from here.”

It’s not a threat. It doesn’t read as one. It’s a warning. But he’s done with his questions, and Spy’s not slipped up. The bindings connecting him to the chair are released, and he’s hauled up and carried more than lead back to his holding. As they get closer, he finds his footing, forces himself to step in line with his escort. His ribs strain in protest. A bruise he can sense is blooming across his left side pulsates with every step. He ignores it, forcing his steps to be normal. He ignores the way his body wants to wince as his weight lands against the hard floor, ripples of infinitesimal force coursing over his injuries. They stop at the lit mirror-window. Within, Mick sits, though he is not alone.


End file.
